


The Christmas Party

by ariadneslostthread



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, MiserableHolidays Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:16:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadneslostthread/pseuds/ariadneslostthread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta throw the best Christmas Party every year. Courfeyrac is most disheartened to find out Feuilly can't go, and takes steps to ensure his attendance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachel/gifts).



It was well known amongst the people who counted that Bossuet lived with Joly more than anywhere else. 

The two friends shared everything, even a birthday. 

It was also well known, more or less, that they also shared a mistress, more or less. Although was it was arguable that Musichetta, the mistress in question, shared the two of them with each other. 

Finally, it was certainly well known that Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta held a Christmas party every year and it was unquestionably the best Christmas party ever to be thrown and that attendance, of those who counted, was absolutely compulsory. 

Furthermore, neither Joly, Bossuet or Musichetta invited anyone at all, nor did they pester, harangue or cajole anyone into attending. The entire thing had acquired a status of legend and relied on its own reputation, and in no small part Courfeyrac's charms, for publicity. 

....

"Feuilly I am shocked and appalled. The Christmas party? The Christmas party!" Courfeyrac dashed his hat from his head and began to pace. “Enjolras, I expect this sort of behaviour from. Combeferre even-although of course not the Christmas party! Because it's the Christmas party! Everyone loves the Christmas party! Enjolras loves the Christmas party once he's been convinced." Courfeyrac delivered this speech whilst pacing back and forth across the floor, in time with his exclamations and punctuating each one by flinging up his hands. Now he rounded on Feuilly and fixed him with a baleful glare. "Who's Enjolras going to talk to? Hmm? Everyone knows you're his favourite."

Feuilly almost snorted at this, true he and Enjolras got along uncommonly well for two so different at first glance but Feuilly rather thought Courfeyrac might be a principal competitor for favourite if Enjolras indulged in expressing anything so sentimental. But it was usually best to let Courfeyrac wear himself out when he had these little fits of pique. He'd become rather despondant but a particularly wonderful thing about Courfeyrac was how alarmingly easy it was to restore his spirits. So Feuilly stayed quiet, obediently sitting in his chair to endure his telling off.

"My chief argument in convincing him to come! Abandoned me at the post you have. Despicable. Deplorable. Deh-dis-other 'D' words!" Courfeyrac said melodramatically and threw up his hands again in desperation. 

The failed search for further appropriate adjectives to fling at Feuilly probably indicated Courfeyrac had said his piece, at least, but also suggested it was about time Feuilly came up with an adequate response. 

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” 

Ah. There we are.

Courfeyrac was squarely in front of him now, hands on his hips, got tapping in irritation. 

Feuilly cleared his throat. 

“I have to work."

“Work! Work! Of all the excuses-oh, work? Really? “Courfeyrac said, deflating mid-sentence.” Is that true? "

Tragically it was. Feuilly wouldn't have said so otherwise. He nodded solemnly. 

“But it’s Christmas!”

Feuilly nodded.

“Oh my dear fellow. That's awful. Cruel even." Courfeyrac said, absolutely sincere and crestfallen.

It was also apparently beyond belief as Courfeyrac, who'd resumed his pacing, stopped and turned his head to the side inquisitively to ask again, "Really?”

“I’m afraid so. The last push before Christmas-fans are a popular gift and..." Feuilly trailed off, entirely unsure why he was defending his employer’s decision to open on Christmas Eve.

Courfeyrac was still for a moment, same expression of disbelief on his face before nodding and resuming his pacing. If Feuilly knew Courfeyrac well, which he did, he'd have said he was wracking his brains for a solution.

"It's really not so-" Feuilly began but was shushed by a hand that then found Courfeyrac's chin, tapping it thoughtfully.

Courfeyrac made a few more passes of the room, then stopped suddenly, turning on his heel to Feuilly, expression alit.

“Well that’s it. Of course. I’ll simply have a word with your employer, I’m sure he’ll understand and-“

Feuilly pinched the bridge of his nose. “Courfeyrac, much as you mean well, that’s the absolute worst thing you could do.”

Courfeyrac held perfectly still for another second, then his face fell into solemn understanding with a heavy sigh. “Ah.” He said. “Yes, of course, you’re right. Of course you’re right.” He murmured and began his circuit of the room once more.

Another circuit and he jolted to a halt.

“What if-Ah no, would never work. Where would we get that much treacle? “

Feuilly, baffled, wisely didn’t question this, leaving whatever madness that occasionally possessed Courfeyrac to the inside of his head.

“Perhaps…” Courfeyrac mused, then snapped his fingers and turned away on his heel. “No!”

Then, “If…and we could…oh but… dash it!”

Feuilly followed Courfeyrac’s progress back and forth across the room until he felt it might be wise to attempt to intervene.

“I know! We’ll-“

“Courfeyrac-“

“No, no, I absolutely have it this time.” Courfeyrac insisted.

Feuilly raised an eyebrow, unable to contain his curiosity.

But though Courfeyrac’s lips moved, no word or sound came out. “Never mind.” He muttered and began his pacing.

Just as Feuilly began to suspect they might be there all night and perhaps he ought to send for Enjolras or Combeferre to take Courfeyrac to lie down quietly somewhere Courfeyrac slowed and became quite still, just in front of Feuilly’s chair.

“That’s it.” He said, smiling slowly, “That’s absolutely it. We’ll simply have the party later.”

Feuilly blinked. You couldn't simply move the party. It was the Christmas party. It just sort of happened by some sort of mysterious, unspoken, shared understanding.

“Courfeyrac, you really needn't on account of me. And the party will still be going on later-"

Courfeyrac cleanly clipped the end of Feuilly's sentence. “But you'd miss the speeches. And mulling the wine! And by the time you finish we'll all be so merry and - what if we've had all the wine? I'm not any of us bar Combeferre can be relied upon to save you any, and you know what Combeferre is like about the mulled wine. .." Courfeyrac trailed off, reminiscing. “No." He announced, snapping back into the room. “I won't have it. I shan't. You must be there from the start. Besides, we'd wait for you to begin the presents anyway so we shall just have to wait for your arrival for the party to begin."

Courfeyrac folded his arms and looked at Feuilly triumphantly as if daring him to challenge his marvellous solution.

Feuilly felt a smile stretch across his lips; it was rather difficult not to smile in Courfeyrac's presence, a fact which, now he thought of it, was true for all of his friends. So he really was glad that Courfeyrac was so insistent and it seemed he might be able to enjoy the party after all. Just as he was about to articulate toys thought Courfeyrac's face crumpled. 

“Unless..." he began slowly, “You won't be too tired, after working all day, will you?”

“No!" Feuilly exclaimed, slightly more intensely than he intended in an effort to get a word in edgewise between Courfeyrac's oscillating exclamations of delight and despair. Feuilly cleared his throat and carried on in a more proper tone. “No. That is, I should love to go. I only feel bad that if my arrival is to herald the beginning of the v party then I'll not be much help in getting everything ready. Perhaps I could lead the clean-up party? "

Courfeyrac regarded him with an expression usually reserved for Enjolras when he completely missed the point of more frivolous aspects of life, or Combeferre when he became absorbed in describing an aspect of something or other in exquisite and extraneous detail, or Joly when he spoke about magnets or phlebotomy or select other of his more alternative views on medicine. It was a look which suggested the recipient was, much beloved of course, but entirely mad. 

But Courfeyrac shook his head, smiling wryly, then turned into a solemn nod. "Yes, Feuilly. You can help clean up."

Feuilly had the impression he was being humoured. Nevertheless, Courfeyrac had done what Feuilly had hoped he might and that was fill him up with Christmas spirit that thus far, in the face of having to work right up until Christmas Eve, he had been rather lacking.

Feuilly leant forward to catch Courfeyrac's cuff between his fingers then wrap his hand around Courfeyrac's and squeeze. “Thank you."

Courfeyrac frowned, baffled. “For what?”

Feuilly smiled again; another wonderful thing about Courfeyrac was how very little he seemed to realise just how wonderful he was - despite how he may joke. 

“Just think, Enjolras will be thrilled and sure to come now. And all because of you."

Feuilly felt his cheeks heat and coughed lightly into the back of his wrist as he stood to excuse himself. “I ought to be off," he said and picked up his hat.

“Yes, of course." Courfeyrac replied, plucking the cap from Feuilly's hand and giving it a dust. “Expect you've to be up early for work and all?"

“Indeed." Feuilly answered, watching Courfeyrac as he tugged the cap onto Feuilly's had and straightened and adjusted it far beyond the level of attention it usually received. "Goodnight, Courfeyrac." He said, once Courfeyrac deemed him dressed with an approving nod.

Courfeyrac grinned, "Goodnight, my dear friend."

Another nod and Feuilly slipped out of the door, leaving Courfeyrac to his thoughts. 

Courfeyrac watched the closed door for a second; idly fingering the stem of a glass of wine he'd barely touched. 

That was the problem of Feuilly dealt with then. Now, to convince Enjolras. 

With a wry, fond smile Courfeyrac drained the wine. What the two of them seemed not to understand was that all a party was was the people who came, and without the right people, the party would fail to be any kind of party at all. 

…

“Enjolras, dear, if you’d just hang this over that picture frame – no, no, not there. Here, let me show you…”

“This is enormously entertaining.” Bossuet commented lightly, watching with interest as Enjolras varied the height, angle and ‘swoop’ of the garland he held in one hand under Musichetta’s direction.

Courfeyrac nodded his agreement. “An unexpected, but pleasing, result of my plan, I think.”

“Do you know, I think this might be the first time Enjolras has been on time to one of these parties?”

“My dear Lesgle, that was precisely my intent. He never means to do it, I’m sure, but left to his own devices Enjolras would have met a fellow on the way here, who has invaluable information about printing presses or some such and become horribly distracted. Else, he’d have simply had to dash off to discuss the procurement of maps with some other contemporary of his, and quite forget the time. Or he’d happen upon Bahorel and they’d decide to take a detour through the tanneries – you know – just to see if there was anything to be heard, and of course there would be, and they’d finally arrive here, hours late, full of the most adventuresome stories which probably involved hiding in an old barrel or running here, all the way from Faubourg Saint-Marcel.”

Bossuet laughed as Courfeyrac’s voice grew higher in pitch and louder, until Enjolras glanced at him over his shoulder – in the midst of pinning a garland to the wall, and earned himself a sharp word from Musichetta for shifting at a critical moment, which only made Bossuet laugh all the harder.

“In their defence,” Bossuet said, between chuckles, “That only happened the once.”

“The point is, that the only way to ensure Enjolras is here, and on time too, is to supervise him and keep him occupied.”

Apparently satisfied with the location of the latest garland, Musichetta dusted off her hands, placed them on her hips and turned to the two of them.

“Both of you are awful to tease, with Enjolras being a big help and the two of you just sitting there.”

“A terrible misfortune might befall your lovely decorations if I were to help.” Bossuet said, in his own defence.

“And Enjolras is taller than I am – enviably more suited to the task than I. And you know what they say about too many cooks and broth.” It was certainly true enough; when Courfeyrac had delivered Enjolras and himself to Joly’s rooms earlier that afternoon, Musichetta’s eyes had lit up, as they roved up and down Enjolras’ considerable full height and he’d been immediately put to work with a rather bewildered expression.

Musichetta shook her head and returned to Enjolras who’d gallantly ignored the entire conversation about his person in favour of selecting the best decorations from a box in the centre of the floor. 

Bossuet chuckled, rather fondly, eyes on Musichetta as she resumed her directing, flicking momentarily towards the small kitchenette where Joly was mixing punch in high secrecy and would inform no one of the secret ingredient.

“Well, if I might offer my humble opinion, your plan was genius, because Enjolras is rather an expert at hanging garlands, in particular, wouldn’t you say?”

“Oh, yes. I agree.” Courfeyrac replied solemnly, “It’s all about the swoop, I think. And you’re right, Enjolras has certainly mastered the art of the swoop.”

Enjolras, having perfected another garland to Musichetta’s satisfaction, turned and raised an eyebrow at them drily. “It is the first time I have ever done it,” he said.

Joly was unable to maintain his silent concentration at this and looked up in surprise. “Surely not,” he said, “You’ve done such a lovely job, you both have,” he added with a beaming smile at Musichetta. “Everyone loves hanging garlands, you must have done it as a child?”

But Enjolras shook his head, “No. It was always more…” he paused, fingering the end of a garland thoughtfully, “Orchestrated, where I grew up.” It wasn’t unnoticed that he did not say ‘home’. “The servants did it all and it all had to look right.” His expression darkened for a moment as he added, “As if there were a socially acceptable way for a garland to be hung. It was all designed to show off the house.” He glanced over his shoulder at a nearby one, and, as Musichetta was distracted by a kiss from Joly, reached over and tugged the end of it so that one swoop was less swoopy than it’s neighbour. 

Courfeyrac laughed and got to his feet. “Well, not only does it all look marvellous, I think your garlands are the most rebellious garlands I’ve seen.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow, but allowed the kiss Courfeyrac pressed to his cheek, and allowed himself a small, pleased smile. 

“Joly!” Courfeyrac called, giving Enjolras arm a quick squeeze, “That punch must be perfect by now, everyone will be here soon and I am in desperate need of a drink.”

“It is ready, but you’re not having even a drop until it’s hot and we’ll not do that until everyone is here.”

….

As with most parties, there was no clear line of delineation to separate when was ‘before the party’ and when was ‘party’. Joly had finished the punch, and a selection of other drinks besides once Grantaire had arrived bearing, what he claimed, was the best brandy in Paris. Then Bahorel had arrived, his mistress along with him. Prouvaire was late, as was his wont, and slipped in between the arrival of other miscellaneous and sundry friends, and quite suddenly the room was abuzz with chatter and feeling very jolly indeed.

But, this party didn’t truly begin until, after a long while of silence from the door, there was a knock upon it. Courfeyrac opened it, a glass of wine in hand – Joly had continued to stand guard over the punch, refusing to allow a drop of it to anyone until everyone had arrived – to find Feuilly on the other side, shivering in his thin coat, the collar turned well up and swamped by a scarf wrapped several times around his neck and half covering his face. His shoulders and boots were both equally wet with melting snow and no sooner had he managed to say hello than he had been seized by Courfeyrac into a fierce embrace. 

“Feuilly!” Courfeyrac declared, manhandling Feuilly into the room and divesting him of his coat. 

“Feuilly!” Came an answering roar from the assembled Amis which rather startled party goers who did not, in fact, know Feuilly.

“Feuilly, my friend, what absolute perfect timing you have.” Courfeyrac said, excited, and glanced meaningfully at Joly. “Heavens, I can feel the cold coming off you. You must be freezing, come along, come along, get warm by the fire.”

Courfeyrac’s excitement was infectious, and his warmth along with that of the fire drove the chill and weariness from his bones, replacing it with a curious, precious sensation that made Feuilly laugh as he was bodily encouraged once more to move over to the fire – the prime party location, it seemed, for most of his friends were the people closest to it. Enjolras and Combeferre, predicatably, were next to each other, heads bowed and deep in quiet conversation. Prouvaire was staring into the fire pensively while next to him Bahorel and Grantaire were debating the merits and draw backs of several of the cafes they both frequented. Courfeyrac, having delivered Feuilly into the centre of all of this, flitted through them all, utterly in his element.

“Feuilly! Good man!” Joly called to him over the din of the room and made his way over to clasp Feuilly by the hand, wringing it sincerely. 

As a chief host of this thing, Feuilly felt it due that he deliver his apologies for being late to Joly. He’d tried to leave work on time, he really had, and he’d dashed across the city to make up for it, coming perilously close to slipping over in the snow more than once. “Joly, I’m sorry I’m late, I…”

“Nonsense, nonsense.” Joly said, still holding Feuilly’s hand and would hear no more apologies than Courfeyrac would. “Not late at all, dear fellow. The party’s just beginning now, with you here. Gosh, you are cold, and absolutely wet through – is it snowing?” Joly said, worried, when rubbing at Feuilly’s cold stiff hand had failed to warm it. 

“Er...yes, started coming down as I left.” Feuilly said, somewhat bewildered by the attention focused on him as Joly switched hands and vigorously rubbed that one too. 

“Don’t fret, Jollly.” Lesgle called, clapping one hand to Feuilly’s shoulder and the other to Joly’s. “Your punch will chase off any chance of his taking cold.” 

Clearly, Joly’s happiness to have all his friends happy and whole about him over rode his inclination to fuss and fret because he nodded. “Yes! Yes, you are quite right. And now Feuilly is here, we can do the poker.” He glanced at the fire, where, sure enough, a poker was sitting in the grate, the end of it glowing cherry red amongst the flickering orange flames. Gather round everyone!”

Joly’s voice carried over the room, and there was a brief lull in the chatter as the entire room turned to Joly, who beamed. “The poker!” He said, by way of explanation as Bossuet and Musichetta came to stand either side of him, Bossuet’s arm around his shoulders, Musichetta’s around his waist and his arms around each of theirs.

Bahorel’s laughter boomed out across the room, followed by his deep voice, alight with mirth. “Don’t let Lesgle anywhere near it!” He called, to general laughter of which Bossuet was the most enthusiastic participant. 

“Indeed!” Bossuet replied, with a nod to Bahorel. “But who should have the honours? The beautiful Musichetta?” 

Musichetta bobbed in a small courtesy, but shook her head.

“Our lovely host, Jolllly?” Bossuet continued, making much of his ‘ailes’.

Joly shook his head. “No, I made it and it is time to pass it’s care on to another. Perhaps, our dear chief, Enjolras, who has discovered a new talent in hanging garlands this very day?”

Enjolras looked up, a little startled and a hint of pink colouring his cheeks. “Feuilly,” he said, “It ought to be Feuilly, as it was his arrival that heralded the start of the party.”

“Seconded!” Cried Courfeyrac, amongst the general acclaim this nomination was met with. 

“It is decided then, Feuilly, if you would…”

Slightly taken aback, Feuilly took the poker in his hand as Joly leant over to whisper instructions to him. The handle of the poker was just warm, the end brilliant red. Everyone stood well back as he dipped the end into the great bowl of punch and it bubbled furiously, filling the room with the smell spices and wine, Christmassy and wonderful, as the onlookers cheered and clapped.

 

“For you, the first glass…” Joly said, passing Feuilly a glass with a little silver handle brimming with the stuff.

It was all very chaotic for the next few moments as Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta circulated through the room to make sure everyone had a glass and Feuilly found himself by the mantelpiece, warming his back as the punch warmed his insides. 

“Merry Christmas, Feuilly.” A quiet voice said next to him. Feuilly turned and Enjolras had appeared at his elbow, perfectly quiet, as he tended to do. 

“Enjolras, Merry Christmas. It certainly is with all of this.” Feuilly gestured slightly with his punch glass. 

Enjolras inclined his head in agreement. “You look tired.” He said, direct and honest as he tended to be. 

Feuilly nodded, equally honest. “I was, but this…” he gestured again, entirely unsure how to describe the merriment around him. “This has restored my spirits.”

Enjolras looked at him inquisitively. “You sound surprised.”

“So do you.” Feuilly replied.

Enjolras smiled slightly, ducking his head. “I probably do. Christmas parties – well, they weren’t like this, to say the least when I was a child. All very well to do affairs, grown-ups discussing grown-up sorts of things of little importance to me, then and now. Not that I was privy to any of them, I was part of the spectacle I think. Dressed up and allowed downstairs for a short while principally to be cooed over by people’s maiden aunts.” Enjolras said, lip curling slightly.

Feuilly snorted at the image, “Would it be safe to assume you detested that?”

“Mmm. There was a particularly memorable year I rebelled against the ridiculous costuming and after that event I was strictly confined to my room for the duration of the event.”

Feuilly looked at him sideways. Enjolras was smiling in an unusually wicked manner, and expression he’d more readily associate with Courfeyrac. 

“What…what did you do?” Feuilly asked, over a sip of punch.

“I took all my clothes off in the middle of the ball room.” Enjolras replied, entirely dead pan. 

“You…” Feuilly, who had not expected this at all, choked on his drink. Enjolras patted his back without breaking his expression. 

“My understanding of effective rebellion has evolved since then, I assure you.”

Feuilly blinked. Well that was certainly true, but a voice in the back of his mind, which sounded suspiciously like Courfeyrac, thought that Enjolras taking all his clothes off might attract some much needed attention at rallies when their politics did not. 

“We didn’t have Christmas parties when I was a child.”

Enjolras nodded his understanding. 

“I suppose I never really understood about Christmas.” Feuilly said, and then stopped. “Well, no. I mean, I don’t remember a family Christmas very clearly, and then…I suppose there wasn’t really a Christmas at all for a good many years, it was just about work.”

Enjolras switched the hand he held his glass in and pressed the now free one to Feuilly’s arm, a silent, but none the less heartfelt gesture of empathy.

“This is… different.” Feuilly said, and smiled. “An excellent sort of different, but not one I’m sure I’ve entirely understood just yet.”

“Understood what?” Courfeyrac appeared between them, casually slinging and arm around each of their shoulders. 

“We were discussing our lack of experience with Christmas parties. “ Enjolras explained.

“And you think you don’t understand them?” Courfeyrac asked slowly. 

Feuilly and Enjolras nodded.

“Oh, my dears. There’s nothing at all to understand,” said Courfeyrac, squeezing them both. “Would that Christmas lasted the whole year through (as it ought) and that the prejudices and passions which deform our better nature were never called into action among those who they should ever be strangers,” he said enigmatically and turned around to take both their hands, his expression the very definition of ‘face like Christmas’. “Christmas parties, this one at least, are a chance to show each other how much we all mean to each other, and to say that out loud. It’s a chance to embrace each other for all we are, flaws and all.”

“Like you, Feuilly, chose to embrace the world?” Enjolras asked conviction in his tone, the barest question in his inflection. 

“And you, Enjolras, with so much good feeling towards your fellow man, you see them all as your brothers?”

Courfeyrac blinked at them, head tilted to one side and undeniably fond smile twitching his lips before shaking his head with a joyous laugh. 

“Oh, you two. What a pair you make, and perfectly matched. Do stop being so serious!” he said, clutching both of their hands together in his. “Now come along; Enjolras I need your baritone, and Feuilly your tenor. The singing is about to begin!”

With a squeeze of their hands, they followed him, and the most merry time was had by all.


End file.
